One Story of Gaza
You never leave the same
as when you arrive.
Your mother's womb is
no longer safe from
bombs or bullets, and Israel
still cuts the grass. The buffer
zone is expanded, the fences
reinforced. What once was
taken — house by house —
calls for "deliberately inflicted
life-changing injuries."
Your return to land beyond
the pocked, sand-dusted berms
is deemed an "infiltration."
*
You stand out, are spotted.
They fire — no warning given.
You tumble, get up,
persist in your "Great March"
against their appropriation.
At the barbed border
dividing them from you,
wherever they aim,
somebody else goes down.
*
The body of ten-month-old
Layla Ghandour is carried
home from the hospital,
placed in a pink plastic basin,
washed by the light of cellphone,
wrapped in white shroud wrapped
in your flag. So small this bundle
in red and green, white and black.
*
On this, the year's bloodiest
day, you hear too well the wails
rising amid struggles amid smoke.
Sixty times one more of you falls.
Don't take this as your call to prayer,
you tell your mourning wives.
"It's God's will." "Have faith in God."
*
To be displaced is "Nakba."
What happens at their fences
where everything is used
to stop you and you and you
is catastrophe times two
on this singular sliver of land,
this Gaza stripped of peace
this land denying your claim,
and roused again to resistance.
© Maureen E. Doallas
__________________________________
The inspiration for this poem and some of the quoted material is "
What the Gaza Protests Portend" at
New York Books Daily, May 15, 2018.
The phrase "still cuts the grass" refers to an Israeli strategy of tolerating a level of violence from Gaza and then re-engaging, without ever finding a solution or creating peace; in other words, maintaining the status quo. I first came across the description in a 2014
Vox article about Palestinian fatalities.
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